Triumph in Arms (13 page)

It was an instant before he could speak, and then he held his voice even only by the most stringent effort. “I didn’t know anyone was searching for her until just a second ago. As for her hiding, it was meant to be a surprise.”

Reine set her daughter on her feet, though the grim expression did not leave her features. If she believed a word of what he said, there was no sign of it. “I told her plainly not to bother you.”

He divided a wan smile between the two of them. “She is no bother. At least, as long as she doesn’t jump around.”

“You have fever, you know,” Reine informed him with something close to accusation.

“It’s the rule with these things.” He paused, more aware than he wanted to be of the throbbing that continued in his wound. Shifting a little in an attempt to ease it, he asked, “How bad is it?”

“You’ll recover, barring blood poisoning. That is the considered opinion of Dr. Laborde. I sent Paul for him, and it was he who removed the ball from your side. He seemed competent.”

“I’m familiar with his work,” Christien said dryly. “He’s thorough, though lacking in tenderness.”

“It’s as well that you weren’t conscious while he was attending you.”

“Just so.” Laborde was the physician called out most often by the sword masters as he had an excellent reputation for healing wounds. Had the good
doctor mentioned that he had seen him earlier, when called to Barichere? Surely not, or Reine would have mentioned it. Another reason for Laborde’s popularity was his discretion. No doubt it was a coincidence that he had been chosen, or else Paul knew of his connection to those in the Passage de la Bourse.

“Did you see…that is, do you know who did this to you?” Reine spoke with distracted curiosity, her gaze on Marguerite. While they spoke, the child had wriggled from her grasp. She was climbing the bed steps once more, though she chose to sit near Christien’s feet this time.

He gave a small shake of his head. “I saw nothing except the flash of the powder before the shot struck. Being so near River’s Edge, I suppose my guard was down.”

“You have no idea who might want to harm you.”

“Not at the moment,” he continued at once, before she could question the evasion. “To whom do I owe my gratitude for being brought to the house?”

“I found you, if that’s what you mean. I heard the shot. By the time I reached you, the assailants were gone.”

“Without finishing me off.”

“I suppose they thought—thought there was no need.”

She didn’t look at him as she spoke but settled her gaze on the crystal water carafe on the bedside table, which had a matching glass turned over it as a cover. Recalled to his earlier request, perhaps, she moved around the bed, lifted the glass and filled it with water.

“Assailants, you said. You think there was more than one?” He watched her movements, noting without comment her reluctance to speak of his supposed death.

“It seems unlikely one man would venture to attack someone of your renown,” she said with a small shrug.

“With a sword, you mean. A pistol evens the odds amazingly.” He was not certain whether her implied compliment came from the truth, flattery or sly jib, but was gratified all the same. “I take it no one else saw the attack?”

“Not that I am aware.” She set down the pitcher, then leaned over the bed and slid her hand beneath his pillow to lift his head. As he parted his lips, she held the glass to them.

He drank, but came close to strangling. Her scent of roses, violets and her own sweetness invaded his senses with stunning force. Feverish and supine on linen sheets he might be, but he was still aware of burgeoning heat and fullness in his groin. Her nearness set his brain rambling down paths far better left unexplored. It was just as well they had a small duenna sitting on guard, watching with bright, inquisitive eyes.

He signaled that he’d had enough water. As she straightened and replaced the glass on the bedside table, he spoke again. “I really am grateful for your timely appearance, you know, and for your care.”

“You mustn’t give me all the credit. It was Alonzo who directed the hands to bring you to the house on a shutter. He also undressed you and put you to bed.”

“I did wonder,” he said in a dry tone.

Her color increased in a fashion that made him wonder if Alonzo might not have had an assistant in removing his clothing. The idea was definitely stimulating. Before he could ask, however, she went on again.

“He will naturally be nearby while you are abed. You have only to ring for him.”

“That’s good to know.”

Her lashes flickered, but she still didn’t raise her eyes to meet his. “Dr. Laborde will be looking in on you to check your progress and change your dressing. He desired me to tell you that you should move as little as possible while you heal. You must not think of leaving your bed for at least three days, possibly more.”

About that, Christien had reservations. It was his experience that wounds were less sore and mended faster if he moved around. But other matters were more important at the moment.

“As for your head, you have a mild concussion. He left a tincture of laudanum for headache as well as for the pain in your side. I will bring—”

“Thank you, no.”

That got her attention, at least to the point of frowning at him.

“Truly, it will be—”

“No.”

Her lips firmed and she looked away again. “As you please.”

He eyed her with suspicion. He had not expected so easy a victory. It would not surprise him if she
waited a short time and renewed the attack. A diversion might be useful.

“What about the wedding?”

“It’s as well that plans for it have not been set.”

“We will not put if off too long, I hope.”

She sent him another flashing glance. “No.”

He studied the wild rose color that stained the finegrained skin over her cheekbones. It was a virulent reminder of the night in the smoking room and the stunned, deep rose-red that suffused her face after he had given her such unexpected pleasure. For an instant, the gripping ache in his groin was more distracting than the other aches he held at bay. It spurred his thoughts, giving him the glimmer of an idea.

“I’ve no patience with lying abed in the meantime. However…”

“Yes?”

“Enduring it would be easier if there was someone to read me the news sheets or even a novel or two. I mean, given that my head pounds like Thor’s own hammer every time I move and my eyes feel as if they’re crossing? A hand or two of cards might while away an hour or two, as well.”

“Cards,” she repeated, her voice flat.

It was a mistake to mention the last. He waited to be told it was impossible, or that he must apply to her father as the card player.

“I can play with you,” Marguerite said with hope in her small face.

An ironic smile curved one corner of Reine’s luscious mouth. “So she may, since she’s no bother to
you. My father has taught her all the more innocuous card games.”

It wasn’t precisely what Christien had in mind. Yet to disappoint the little one at the foot of his bed was impossible. “Thank you, Mademoiselle Marguerite. I will look forward to your fair company.”

The child dimpled at him, a coquette in the making. Reine’s face softened as she watched them, though it lasted only an instant. Stepping around to touch her daughter’s shoulder, she said, “That must wait until morning. It’s time you were in bed.”

“But,
Maman!”

“Monsieur Christien is tired now and should rest. Run along,
chère.”

A petulant scowl pushed out the child’s lower lip. “You must come, too.”

“In a moment.”

“Now,” she insisted.

“Marguerite,” Christien said, his gaze direct.

He thought for a moment that the girl would ignore him. She stared at him with mutiny in her small face, but finally heaved a dramatic sigh and climbed down from the bed. Her footsteps dragged as she left the room. The door closed behind her with a definite slam.

In the quiet that followed her departure, the rain thrumming on the roof and splashing from the eaves seemed louder, more insistent. Distant thunder made a dull counterpoint. The murmuring sound seemed to close them in together, in that house where everyone else had retired for the night.

A draft, left perhaps from the closing door, stirred
the folds of Reine’s nightclothes. Christien looked away, being more aware than was comfortable of her shadowed curves within the layers of fine lawn. It would not do to be caught ogling his future bride, however much he might be tempted.

“I must ask you not to do that,” Reine said abruptly.

“Pardon me?”

“Impose your authority in that way. You are not Marguerite’s father.”

“Not yet,” he corrected.

“She is my child. Even when—after—we marry, I would prefer that you leave her care and discipline to me.”

Anger stirred in his chest. It was not because she refused to allow him the right to command Marguerite, but because her stricture placed him firmly outside her tight-knit family circle. “She will become my responsibility as surely as if she were of my blood. If I must accept that, then I should have some say in her upbringing. No, wait,” he said as Reine opened her mouth to refute the claim. “My purpose just now was not to override your authority. It was, rather, to reinforce it. To stand behind you will always be my object.”

The anger drained slowly from her features. In its absence she looked suddenly weary. The pale and tender line of her throat moved as she swallowed. “I have managed these five years without your support.”

“So you have, but why should you continue when I will be at hand?” He hesitated, then went on since he had no idea when an opportunity might come again.
“On this subject, will you consider allowing the big bloodhound to be in the nursery with Marguerite?”

Confusion rose in her eyes. “Chalmette? But why?”

“It seems he may be some protection for her.”

“Protection.”

Ignoring the flatness of Reine’s voice, he said, “She thinks this apparition she calls the
loup-garou
haunts only her. If she can be persuaded the dog will alert the house to his presence or even keep him at bay, her mind may be easier.” He waited for her answer, though half-afraid she would reject the suggestion merely because it came from him.

Reine stared at him for long seconds. Her lips firmed then, and she gave a brief nod. “It’s little enough for the chance of a decent night’s sleep, for all of us as well as for her. I will see to it.”

“Excellent.” He didn’t smile, but he feared the sound of it was in his voice.

She turned toward the door as if she meant to call Chalmette inside at once. Pausing, she swung half around again, studying him from the corners of her eyes. “I really must ask again if you have any thoughts on who might want you out of the way. Yes, and would go to such ends to achieve it.”

“Thoughts, possibly,” he allowed, “but no conclusions.”

“You are quite certain it doesn’t come from some—some incident in your past? You are sure an enemy hasn’t found you, some gentleman you may have bested in a duel or given other cause to wish you ill?”

He watched her while doubt rose inside him. It
almost sounded as if she knew more about him than she should. “None that I am aware of.”

“I don’t ask out of mere curiosity, you understand. My concern is for Marguerite and the rest of my family. If you are pursued by enemies, if you bring that danger to River’s Edge, then the agreement between us must be ended.”

His damnable reputation, that was the source of her doubts. To be required to defend his integrity went against the grain, but it appeared he must make the effort. “I have no string of deaths behind me that may require retaliation, despite what you might think,” he said evenly. “If by chance there are those who feel obliged to take me to task for past deeds, then I believe I am capable of defending not only myself but your family, which will naturally become my own.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“You may rely upon it,” he said, his voice dropping to a deep and grating register. “No one touches those who belong to me. No one.”

A
fter days of steady stitching, Reine was almost finished with Christien’s shirt. She plied her needle along the remaining few inches of the hem while holding it to the last rays of sunset through the French doors. Now and then she glanced up, stretching the kink between her shoulder blades caused by bending over her work, also resting her eyes by allowing them to linger on her patient. He was asleep with his arms relaxed at his sides and his head turned toward her on the pillow.

The sun’s golden glow slanted across his features, giving them a bronze sheen like the mask of some ancient god. The coloration was fascinating, as was the thick fringe of his lashes, the strong line of his nose and pronounced cheekbone ridges of his Indian heritage.

The contrast between his skin and hers had been particularly marked that evening in the smoking room. Three days ago—almost four it must be now—how strange to realize when it was so fresh in her mind. Strange also to consider the two of them might never
have met if he had not set out to win River’s Edge. Propriety would have required that she ignore him even if their paths had crossed. Since circumstances had conspired to throw them together, she was free to see his attraction. Oh, yes, and feel it inside her.

Wanton, she had been so wanton during those moments of closeness between them. He had done his best to persuade her otherwise, but she knew better. For proof, she had only to consider how very affecting it was to trace the firm contours of his lips with her eyes now. Her body below the waist flooded with warm arousal at the mere thought of his mouth on hers once more. That she could feel such a thing in spite of his injuries and her misgivings concerning him was beyond disturbing.

He had proved a stoic patient, something she had seldom met with before. Her father lost his good nature when ill, damning all doctors as quacks. Her mother was inclined to moaning in self-pity while certain she required more treatment than she received. Marguerite was fractious to a point, but became limp and unresponsive in the grip of a fever. As for Theodore, he had been irritable and demanding, able to think of far more aids to his comfort than any one person could supply. He also had no tolerance whatever for pain.

No two men could be less alike.

Christien was immovable in his decisions; that much she had discovered on the first day. Unlike her father, he did not rant or bluster. Nor did he make extravagant threats as Theodore had once done. He simply said what he would do and then did it.

It was disconcerting. It was also infuriating when she wished him to do otherwise, as with the laudanum. Yet it could not be said that she didn’t know where he stood.

At first, she thought he might be correct in saying he didn’t need the tincture, was better off without it dulling his senses. He seemed to heal with amazing swiftness, going from supine weakness to sitting in a chair on the first day. By the next, he was walking around the bed, and she suspected him of walking longer and farther when she was not about. The cuts on his face had begun to heal almost at once. The bruising had faded away and the scabs became less every day.

His headache had not improved, however. Dr. Laborde insisted the laudanum would help. She had offered every treat she could think of in exchange for his compliance, but to no avail.

That had been her mistake; she should never have introduced the notion of rewarding him. He had taken up the suggestion so quickly she’d had no time to marshal a defense. She shook her head as the memory bloomed in her mind.

“I have no sweet tooth, at least not for pie and cake,” he had said in tones of grave consideration as he lay against his piled pillows. “In fact, there’s only one thing I can contemplate as a worthwhile exchange for swallowing your noxious draft.”

She eyed him with lively suspicion. “And that would be?”

“A taste of something sweeter than cake to chase
away the bitter taste of it. Something close to the mead of the gods.”

His gaze had been on her lips; she would have to be stupid not to guess his intent.

“Oh, no,” she said, backing way from the bed.

“I think so, yes,” he answered, laughter in his voice as he caught a fold of her apron, holding fast.

“Release me.” She could have snatched free; she was almost certain of it. She might have caused him pain, however, and that was unacceptable. The devilish look in the velvet darkness of his eyes had nothing to do with her remaining near, nothing at all.

“I don’t believe I can. Laudanum is a strong elixir, but not half so powerful as your kiss.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She allowed herself to be drawn closer to the bed as he twisted her apron fabric around his fist.

“No, I swear it. You could make your fortune visiting the hospitals, though I don’t know what you would do with the besotted fools who must surely follow you home.”

“Nonsense.”

“Not at all. I am a good example, being the most besotted fool of all.”

For that outrageous claim she was allowed no answer. He drew her down until their mouths met. Wooing her with warm sweeps of his tongue, he set her on fire. As her lips opened, he took possession, engaging her tongue in a sinuous dance, drawing it into his mouth, allowing her to sample his in any way she chose.

She had been intoxicated by his humor and daring
as well as his fervor. Somehow, in the rapture of the moment, he eased her hips onto the mattress and drew her carefully into his arms. Thrusting one hand under the soft knot at the nape of her neck, he smoothed over her waist and down her thigh with the other. At her knee, he gathered her skirts in his long fingers, seeking beneath them until she lay in immodest acquiescence, drowning in hot splendor. She wanted his hand between her thighs, inside the slitlike opening of her pantaloons.

Shock at the fervor of that desire brought her upright again. It was she who pushed away at last, she who gathered her wits, poured the dose of laudanum in water and held the glass out to him.

She had not been so lost to all sense that she forgot her purpose. It was some consolation.

No matter the means, she had prevailed. He had taken the laudanum. Now his breathing was deep and even, and all trace of pain had smoothed from his features. It seemed his headache had finally been routed.

She was doubtful he could be kept abed more than another day. Only some purpose of his own had held him there so long, she felt sure. She caught him watching her now and then with what seemed to be a question in his eyes. She might have explored it, but feared she had no answer.

They had spoken only briefly of the night he was shot. He’d given not the slightest hint his mission that evening had any bearing on what happened to him. It could be from loyalty to his fellow sword masters,
those others who made up the ranks of the Brotherhood. It could also be self-protection, because he didn’t want anyone to know he had brought the threat of violence to the very gates of River’s Edge.

As he was so reticent on the subject, Reine had neglected to mention that she had followed him, had come close to seeing him shot, possibly frightened his attackers away before they could finish their job. Or she claimed that as an excuse. It was better than being exposed as the sort of jealous, meddling female who would trail after a man and spy on him in that fashion.

Hot shame moved over her in a wave from just thinking of it. To actually confess it would be unendurable. Nevertheless, she was easier in her mind knowing his purpose in New Orleans had been the business of the Brotherhood. It meant he was not visiting another woman.

She should have guessed he would not be that kind of man. Nothing in his manner or his history suggested it; it was only her past experience that caused her to suspect him.

A quiet knock sounded on the hall door. She looked up in relief at the distraction. It would be Alonzo, for no one else had his quiet touch with such courtesies.

“A caller for Monsieur Christien,
madame,”
the butler announced with his face set in lines of disapproval as he stepped into the bedchamber. “Shall I show the man up?”

The man, he had said, rather than the gentleman. It was a telling distinction. Reine glanced at Christien, sleeping so peacefully. She opened her mouth to
declare him not well enough for visitors. Before she could speak, the new arrival stepped through the doorway behind Alonzo.

“Lucien Vinot, at your service,” he said in quiet introduction as he moved deeper into the room. “And you will be Madame Pingre, I expect. I’ve heard much about you.”

He was thin and tall, but ramrod straight with it, this Monsieur Vinot. His hair was steel-gray, a perfect match for his hooded eyes, and his clothing was an ensemble in stark black and white. Lines made deep grooves about his mouth so it appeared any attempt at a smile must break through untold layers of sorrow. He was pasty white, with a gray tinge to his skin not even the lingering light of sunset could relieve. It also picked out the faint quiver of his lips.

He did not look like a man Reine should know, yet it was necessary to put aside her sewing and deal with him. “Good evening, Monsieur Vinot,” she said, moving forward to give her hand to the guest, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb Christien. “I am desolated to disappoint you, but my fiancé is sleeping, as you can see.”

“I will not stay, but would only look on him a moment, if I may, just to assure myself that all is well with him.”

The diffident words underscored the palsied tremor Reine felt in the man’s hand. Her lack of welcome seemed suddenly petty and mean-spirited. “If I might offer you refreshment, perhaps you will be content to wait with me on the gallery until he wakes.”

Vinot opened his mouth but was prevented from answering as Christien spoke from behind Reine.

“I’m awake now,
chère.”

She turned in surprise, in part for the term of affection but also because he had roused so easily from what she had thought to be drugged slumber. His eyes were clear and calm as they met hers, but carried a gleam in their depths that made her realize she had claimed him as her future husband.

Embarrassment assailed her. It was one thing to bow to the inevitable, but quite another to cooperate in it. She must take care or she would turn into one of those simpering, compliant females who doted on her bridegroom and invited all to congratulate her on attaching him.

That fear was wiped from her mind by another thought altogether. Suppose Christien had never been asleep? Was it possible? Could he have overcome the effects of the laudanum? She didn’t care at all for the thought that he might have been observing her even as she was watching him. He saw too much as it was, this half-breed sword master.

“How providential,” she said in polite response before turning back to their guest. “Well, then. Come, Monsieur Vinot, and take my chair. I will leave the two of you to talk while I see about wine and cakes.”

It was an excuse. She could have directed Alonzo to bring what was required. Her purpose was to allow Christien and his friend a modicum of privacy. She had no intention of interfering with his friendships, and thought it as well that he should realize it.

She had reached the bottom of the stairs, was rounding the newel post on her way out to the kitchen,
when Paul burst through the front door. He halted as he saw her, his face so pale his freckles stood out as tan blotches against the skin.

“Have you seen Papa?” he demanded.

“Not since midday dinner,” she answered, as alarm brushed her. “What is it? What do you want with him?”

“Did you see that man, the one who just rode up?”

“I left him with Christien. What of it?”

“It’s Vinot! I couldn’t believe it, would not if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. That he would dare come here is beyond anything.”

“What are you talking about?” Reine searched her brother’s face while wondering a little wildly if she should have left Christien alone with the man. Though recovering nicely, he was not at his full strength by any means. He had lost quantities of blood, so might be overpowered if this Vinot should have some connection to those who had shot him.

Paul pushed a hand through his hair, shoving the long strands away from his face. “You don’t know? I thought you must by now.”

“Tell me at once what you are mumbling about or I shall go into strong hysterics,” she said with precision.

“Maybe I shouldn’t.”

The look her younger brother gave her was so like that of a gentleman bent on protecting fair womanhood from unpleasantness that it made her blood boil. “Now, Paul!”

“Oh, very well,” he exclaimed, throwing up his hands. “Vinot is the father of the girl who was Theodore’s
little light of love. You understand what I’m saying?”

She had known there was someone though never the name. She gave a brief nod.

“He got her in the family way, then abandoned her, claimed she led him on. The thing is, she wasn’t some loose Gallatin Street chit. She was an innocent, barely fifteen.”

How very like Theodore, Reine thought in weary acceptance, to choose someone who knew less than he did of such liaisons. Meeting Paul’s worried gaze, she asked, “Who told you?”

“Papa, for one, though it’s common knowledge along the Passage de la Bourse. Vinot, you realize, is one of the oldest and most respected swordsmen to keep a salon on the street of fencing masters. He’s a legend—or was until he closed his atelier two years ago. No one could touch him on the piste. He instructed every swordsman in the Vieux Carré who is worthy of the name. The number of duels he fought is beyond counting. He’s truly formidable under the oaks. And this Vinot swore he would kill Theodore for what he did to his daughter.”

Comprehension came in an instant. “That’s what Theodore was running from when he fled town the night he was killed.”

“Exactly. He was scared spitless of the old man, especially after the girl died in childbirth. He was so terrified out of his wits that he thought to hide out here. It didn’t work.”

Reine had assumed some difficulty had driven Theodore from New Orleans to Bonne Espèrance that
fatal night, and from there to River’s Edge. Gambling debts and duns from shopkeepers had been in her mind, however, no doubt because of her father’s habits. Never had she considered anything so dire as this.